


Variations

by Thimblerig



Series: What Is This Thing..? [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Age Difference, Dialogue Heavy, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Mild Kink, Mild Smut, More the feather than the whole chicken, Pre-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 05:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7253608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Show me?"</em>
</p><p> <em>"I am at your disposal."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Variations

**Author's Note:**

> In which I attempt to write smut, but it mostly involves soft-focus camera, innuendo, cropping of scenes, and people talking about their feelings. Sorry about that - I don't visit the land of smut very often. (Please be kind?) Mild as it is, there's a list of kinks and such in the endnotes.

**_Start At The Very Beginning..._ **

 

"It isn't quite what I was expecting..." D'Artagnan said thoughtfully, late one night. 

"Ohh?" Aramis purred. "Am I losing your attention, dear one?"

"Not at all!" she said hurriedly, and the fluttering breath as he laughed against her skin brought out a shudder and a twitch. "I just thought there'd be more... cock. The way they joke about it at the garrison, that's the most important bit."

 _"Pff,"_ and she shivered. "There is a large and grand garden full of exquisite plants and exotic fauna, gracious arbours, reflecting ponds - knee up, that's it - and such roostery things, while prodigiously nice -"

"Prodigious," she agreed, then choked off a gasp.

"- aren't nearly everything. Found your arbour, hm?"

 _"Ughhm._ Show me the rest?"

"I am at your disposal..."

 

 **

 

**_“No.”_ **

 

She was pretty as a picture laid out on his bed, the deep green of the cords brilliant against caramel skin and snowy sheets as her arms reached upwards and the rest of her tautened like a bow. She opened her eyes.

“Alright?”

“Mm, no.” She wrinkled her nose and clarified, “I'm not uncomfortable, and I trust you, but... no.”

Aramis tugged a loose end and the knots opened themselves, the vivid cords falling gently away. She sat up, rubbing her wrists thoughtfully, unselfconscious as a cat. Nose to nose, she asked him, “You're not bothered?” He shook his head, smiling. “What now?”

“Can you duplicate the knots?” She nodded.  He breathed in her ear, “Then do so.”

 

**

 

**_Purity_ **

 

“I've seen you eat lamprey, Gascon.”

“At least I cook it, first. Hang on, I'll get some sauce for those oysters.”

 _“No!”_ he exclaimed, snatching the raw shellfish away. “Blasphemer. The best thing about an oyster is its purity. There isn't - shouldn't - be any spice, any sauce, any skill of another's hands in the mix. A good oyster, dressed in its own brine, tastes only of itself, itself and where it came from.”

She wrinkled her nose dubiously as he cradled the hard, frilly-edged shell against his lips, drinking in the pungent scent, and then emptied the grey and slimy contents into his mouth. He didn't chew at all, just tongued it thoughtfully, eyes closed, and then tipped back his head to let it slide down his throat.

After the third, in which he seemed to commune with the pale sun and the breeze from the sea as much as what was in his mouth, she held out her hand to receive an unshucked oyster. His peals of laughter as she danced around on the wet sand trying to pry it open stayed with her for years after.  

 

**

 

**_Hey Dol-a-Dildo_ **

 

“It’s glass,” she said dubiously, opening the box for the first time and taking it uneasily in her hands. It was cool and slick and very heavy in her palms, rather unlike her experiences with the anatomy which inspired it.

“Mm,” said Aramis. He peeked into the box and read the maker's mark, half-hidden under the shed wrappings of paper. “From Italy. That's where the best _consolateurs_ come from. No wonder it took your friend from the brothel so long.”

“Celestina said she had to sneak it away from all the orders by convent nuns.”

Aramis nodded. “The madam wouldn't want to offend her regulars.”

D’Artagnan lowered the dildo from where she'd been sighting candle flames through the green glass and said, horrified, “I thought she was joking?”

“Probably not?”

D'Artagnan’s teeth clicked shut. She weighed it again in her hands. “It's glass,” she said again. “What if it breaks while I'm using it?”

He choked. “What, exactly, were you planning on doing with it?”

“Yes, but, _glass.”_

“I can find something softer if you'd like. There's a cobbler I know does a nice line in leather stuffed with bristles. It's harder to keep clean and you wouldn't be able to heat it, mind.” At her steady look, he said, “What? T’isnt just rouge I fetch for nice ladies.”

“Heat?”

“I'll put the kettle on.”

**

“I still can't get over the nunneries,” she said after, running her fingers through the curling strands of his hair. She felt his giggle against her ribs.

“You think it's as easy as walking into another room and everything turns off?”

“But that's... people like me,” she said, frustrated. _“I_ have no vocation.”

He huffed lightly. “Sometimes what the spirit craves and what the body begs for are very different. Monasteries and convents were never made for perfect people: perfect people don't need them.” She kept stroking his tousled hair through the following silence. Finally he added, “And sometimes people end up where they never meant to be, and we just have to make the best of it.”

She traced calloused fingers across his temple and felt moisture at the corner of his eye. And how did they get here from talking about toys, hm? Was it true, that he'd been meant for the church? If so, what had tipped him off that path? Or was it something different he was thinking of - Aramis seemed to her a man who strung his troubles like beads on a rosary and tucked them out of sight. It was only now and then you could hear the beads rattling.

 

**

 

**_Play Away_  **

 

She caught his arm lightly as they reached the parting of ways, where house lights drew sparks from the damp cobbles. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

“Cards with Porthos.”

“Room for one more?”

“Well, no actually.”

“Ah, understood.”

“Alright?”

She considered, then broke into a wide smile, white teeth flashing. “But of course. Have fun."

 

**

 

**_The Joy of Literacy_ **

 

“What are you writing?” she asked, lifting her chin off her folded hands and craning her head over her shoulder.

“True things,” Aramis answered, smiling. He licked the tip of the quill, and set it again on her back, where smooth skin and muscle flowed over the bone. The words already scratched into her right shoulder were the wrong angle for her to read: all she could see was the loopy flourish of a capital S in pinky-red, leading over the muscle.

It was maddening, the scratch of the feather’s tip, that harsh point moving with the lackadaisical slowness of Aramis’ florid, indulgent calligraphy down her flank. “Will you read them to me, after?”

“No.” Whatever the words, the scratches would take days to fade, hidden safely under her clothing. She would feel them tomorrow, when her pauldron rubbed against her shoulder, when her leather jerkin moved with her actions. She realised she was humming, grasping great bellyfuls of air and vibrating on the release.

He put his warm hands on her buttocks and flexed them thoughtfully. Then he smiled again, licked the tip of the quill, and set back to work. She sighed and let her thighs fall open. She would feel them when she rode...

 

**

 

**_Pillow Talk_  **

 

“Does it bother you that I talk to Celestina about… this?”

He traced the curl of her ear. “If you were not then… this… would not be happening.” His fingertips moved under her jaw and down the line of her throat to play along the dip of her collarbone. “I will never be your one-and-only; you are emphatically not mine; it's best not to get claustrophobic. And the young lady has a good head on her shoulders.”

“Still afraid of falling in love.”

His fingers stilled. “It is a killer, truly. I am however immensely fond of you, apprentice.”

She took his hand and lipped his fingertips softly. “You say the nicest things, musketeer. Celestina’s nice, too.”

“She's young.” With his other hand he smoothed strands of straight black hair back from her forehead. “In my experience women in that trade grow either very hard or very kind. Sometimes both, in which case,” he whistled, _“terrifying.”_

“You've seen a few,” she said, and felt his chest hum in agreement.

"Who's the new lover?" she asked, walking her fingertips along his ribs, where a row of four parallel scratches that she had nothing to do with stood out faintly red.

He smiled like a cat. "My lips, sealed."

She twisted and, hovering over him, kissed the tip of his nose. "I could _make_ you talk..."

He smiled beatifically. "You could _try_ to make me talk. And who says it's just one?"

They both of them had bruises the next morning from when the ensuing wrestling match landed them on the floor.

 

**

 

**_Play Away 2_ **

 

It was her smile that gave her away in the end, late one night, sitting at a corner table with Athos in the Pillar-of-Roses while Aramis and Porthos did something improbable with a stack of brandy bottles. She could feel it, growing across her face, far too soft and fond for the situation, when she heard Athos hiss. His eyes were on her lips where, thinking about it, she still felt a faint prickle from the uncomplicated pleasure of kissing up her lover's throat. Beard burn. _Hell._ Eyes like flint, Athos reached and hooked a finger into the soft scarf around her neck and tugged it down, showing the remains of where Aramis had returned the favour with something not quite a kiss and not a bite, but entirely delightful.

“How long?” asked Athos drearily.

“A few months,” she said, raising her chin.

“At least you've been something resembling discreet. Stay that way.” He dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps it's for the best,” he added, wincing. Across the room Aramis and Porthos had arms across each others shoulders and were carrolling a drinking song in close harmony.

“It's not as often as all that,” d'Artagnan said defiantly. “I am not an uncontrollable wanton. Neither, despite what you think, is he.”

He stared back, eyes cool as water. “I don't think that.”

Her mouth twisted. “I'm not asking for your blessing.”

“I am not giving it. Be discreet,” Athos ordered. “And for God’s sake be kind.”

She swallowed back outrage. “When have you _ever…?_ ”

“This isn't about me,” he said flatly, and tugged down the brim of his feathered hat to end the discussion.  

 

** 

 

**_His and Her Circumstances_ **

 

‘Love’ isn't a word they use in their dalliances of the moment. A word heavy and full of trouble, it takes far too much space. There is, however, plenty of room in their interstices for ‘like’.

She likes that their private games can be as complex as the winding of a fishing lure or simple as a plum pulled from the tree, sun-warm and plump with juice.

She likes that he and her friend Celestina have formed some kind of obscure alliance to teach her this art - and it is an art - as patient as he can be in the training yard, and with the same sharp and gentle humour.

She likes the heat, and the sweat, and the spice of it. She likes the sounds she can call out of his body.

She likes that after, sometimes, he dives into sleep as easy as a fisher-bird, trusting the waters and her to cradle him.  

**

He likes her vigour and her endurance, the sensuality that is as much a part of her nature as the recklessness. He likes that the same ability to gauge intent and rhythm and focus that she brings to a swordfight comes to bed with them, too. He likes to stroke her skin, warm and smooth over the muscle, until she trembles with it.

He likes to read her poetry as she lies, long and languid, head resting on his thigh. For all her grumbling she will poke him hard if he trails off, and so he drips long lines of honeyed words into her ears as the candles burn down.

He likes that he can startle her into stillness sometimes, as if a bird in flight could hang breathless between the wing beats. He likes that she does not seek to scratch at his heart and so it can rest hidden and (bleeding) quiet. Easy.

He likes that she can make him laugh.

 

**

 

**_Summa Cum Laude_ **

The death of Richelieu was like the falling of a great tree and d'Artagnan herself felt numb and shocky with it, who'd barely known the red eminence a year. She stood stoic with the other honour guard through the pomp and interminable ceremony of the funeral, where the king, struck dumb with grieving, clung to his pale and fragile wife and she herself kept her face carefully blank, folding dainty hands over a belly that swelled like a black sail in high winds.

It was no surprise, then, when Aramis sauntered up beside her and touched her elbow. “D'Artagnan,” he said, smiling crookedly, “if you're not busy, I was wondering...”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to forget my own name tonight. Can you help me do that?”

She cocked her head and regarded him thoughtfully. Her wide mouth opened into a smile. “I am at your disposal.”

It was a good night: heated, energetic, prolonged. Entirely satisfactory; entirely memorable.

But still, if she'd known that would be the last, she might have done things differently.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bondage, toys, eating with intent, marking, pain play, literacy, polyamory.
> 
> \- Everything I know about eating oysters I got from this:  
> http://deadspin.com/how-to-eat-the-raw-oyster-goodness-in-its-pure-form-1490396422 - it's an entertaining read. I strongly suggest that you don't look up lamprey stew, or lamprey at all, for that matter.
> 
> \- None of the stuff about dildos was invented by me, including the special orders from brothels to nunneries. I tried to keep things period, so no rubber, or hard-baked breadsticks, or clockwork, or hollow-with-a-plunger for a spurt of warmed-up milk to add to the happy ending. Fanfic leads to research; research is an eye-opener. In the absence of a description of the glass dildos of the time, I was thinking of the one reviewed here: http://propertyofpotter.com/review-hooded-nun-fucking-sculptures/ It certainly looks artistic.
> 
> \- “Monasteries and convents were never made for perfect people: perfect people don't need them.” - Paraphrased from the novel “The Game of Fox and Lion” by Robert Chase. It's a good read - Florentine Italy In Space! (There was a guy hiding out in a monastery, who only found his vocation years after he joined: that was one of the things he had to say about it.)
> 
> \- I borrowed the thing with the quill from “Playtime” by Donna Immaculata.


End file.
